Within the past two or three years, as summer had come again and the world turned green, a change had taken place in Webster, a growth. More and more he began to look from the porch or windows at those distant massed trees. Something from them seemed to cross over to him, an influence powerful and compelling; it drew him out of the house back with it into the mystery of the forest and he never returned. In truth, almost as soon as he could go anywhere he had started toward the forest without asking permission. They had overtaken him then and dragged him back. When he was old enough to understand, they had explained: he was too young, he would get lost, the bull would hook him. "But why?" Webster had asked, complaining of this new injustice in the world. He was perpetually being surprised that so many things in the world were bent on getting one into trouble; all around him things seemed to be waiting to make trouble. "Why should the bull hook _me_? _I've_ done nothing to _the bull_." They were about finishing breakfast. He was eating in his slow ruminant way--he ate enormously but never hungrily. His father, whose custom it was to divide the last half of his breakfast with the first half of his newspaper, lowered the paper and looked over the top. "My son," he said, "the bull has horns. Every living creature is bound to use everything it has. Use what you have or lose what you have--that is the terrible law in this world. Therefore the bull is obliged to hook what he can to keep his horns going. If you give him the chance, he will practise them on you. Otherwise his great-great-grandson might not have any horns when he really needed them. Do you understand?" "No," said Webster. "I'll explain again when you are mature enough to comprehend," said his father, returning to his paper. Webster returned to the subject. "If I ever have any money in my pocket, you always tell me not to spend it: now you say I ought to use whatever I have." His father quickly lowered his paper and raised his voice: "I have never said that you must use everything all at once, my son. You must learn to use it at the right time." "When _is_ the right time to use a thing?" asked Webster, eating quietly on. "I'll answer that question when it is necessary," his father replied grumblingly from behind his paper, putting an end to the disturbance. A few weeks prior to this breakfast-scene Webster one day at recess had laid bare a trouble in himself, confiding it to one of his intimate school-mates. He did so with a tone of uncertainty, for he was not sure but he was not being disloyal. "Can _your_ father answer all the questions _you_ ask _him_?" "Not half of them!" exclaimed the comrade with splendid candour--"Not half!"